March 20, 2017.
6:00 AM.
Taira no Minamoto’s alarm clock rang with relentless punctuality.
He sat up from his futon with practiced efficiency, tucked away his bedding, and dressed.
After a quick morning wash, he slipped out of his room to begin his daily training.
The hallways were tomb-quiet.
The early morning sun filtered through the foliage, casting dappled light onto the floor where members of the branch families moved silently, performing their mechanical, repetitive chores.
In the courtyard, a gentle breeze stirred the pale pink cherry blossoms.
They drifted down like pearls, or perhaps like tears—sorrowful and desolate as they carpeted the ground.
As he crossed the foyer, he could almost feel the hostile gazes of the collateral branches burning into his back.
But the moment he stepped outside the Taira estate, the sunlight seemed to turn warm again, as if the world within those walls belonged to a different reality entirely.
It was cherry blossom season once more.
Taira no Minamoto was graduating middle school.
He was now fifteen.
He jogged down the narrow country lanes, his unruly black hair defying all attempts at order, sprouting in every direction.
His eyes were the color of a deep, still pool—seemingly gentle at first glance, but sharp as blades upon closer inspection.
With a sharp jawline, a straight nose, and strong brows, he was undeniably handsome—a look befitting his status as a transmigrator.
As he ran alone, the shadows beneath the trees occasionally pulsed with a bone-chilling cold.
Minamoto spared them only a brief, sidelong glance.
Curses existed everywhere.
Wherever there were humans, Cursed Spirits were never far behind.
They were the manifestations of human negativity—physical incarnations of malice, born entirely from the mind.
They could never be truly eradicated.
As long as humanity existed, so too would their darkness.
Like weeds in a field, no matter how many times the wildfire burned them away, they would inevitably sprout again with the spring breeze.
This must be why Suguru Geto called ordinary humans “monkeys,” he mused.
Lost in thought, he returned to the estate—that gloomy, oppressive place.
Aside from his parents, everyone in this house was “dead” inside.
Oppressed by the higher-ups of the jujutsu world, the Taira clan had long since lost its former glory.
Yet, the branch families remained mired in the arrogance of their past, pathetically hoping that compromising with the jujutsu authorities would somehow restore their status.
Minamoto stripped off his workout gear.
Even though he hadn’t broken a single drop of sweat, he stepped into the shower as his mother had instructed.
Cold water lanced over his defined muscles.
Like quenching hot steel, the chill settled his body after the exertion.
He practiced the rhythmic breathing of kendo, letting his internal temperature drop.
Once dressed, he prepared to leave.
Usually, his routine included kendo practice, but today was graduation.
As a senior member of the Kyudo (archery) club, he had to stop by the clubroom first.
It was a school tradition for graduating seniors to help with one last cleaning of the club facilities.
Taira no Minako had already prepared breakfast.
After eating with his parents and confirming the time for the graduation ceremony with his mother, Minamoto made a swift exit.
He didn’t dare strike up a conversation with his father.
Seeing Tokumori actually acting serious for once, Minamoto could only silently wish him luck in surviving his mother’s scrutiny.
The driver, Shigetoki, was waiting by the steps.
Parked at the gate was a sleek, black Nissan Silvia.
I swear, Minamoto thought as he climbed into the back, some big-shot in the jujutsu world must have been gifted shares in Hitachi or something.
Every single “Window” and sorcerer in the country seems to drive this specific line of sedans.
Sunlight spilled across the windshield like a waterfall.
As he sat in the back, he realized that after today, he would be entering Tokyo Jujutsu High.
He pulled the recruitment brochure from his bag.
Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College.
One of only two jujutsu educational institutions in Japan.
To the public, it was marketed as a private, religious vocational school.
Many sorcerers used the school as a base of operations even after graduation.
It wasn’t just a school; it was a hub for mission mediation and support—a cornerstone of the jujutsu world.
As a registered vocational school under the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology, Tokyo Jujutsu High offered high-quality education to “specially gifted” students.
Tuition and housing were free, uniforms were custom-made at no cost, and job placement was guaranteed.
If a student decided they didn’t want to work in the jujutsu field—or if they were forced into early retirement due to injury—the school provided a degree equivalent to the University of Tokyo.
They would even intervene to coordinate admissions with other prestigious universities.
Not bad, Minamoto thought.
The higher-ups aren’t all complete idiots.
There were fewer than a thousand active sorcerers in Japan, and with Curses popping up everywhere, the job was high-risk.
Death, dismemberment, and permanent disfigurement were common occupational hazards.
High pay and top-tier benefits were the least they could offer.
Every mission commission came with a staggering price tag.
Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in existence, could drop a billion yen without blinking.
The Gojo family held massive stakes in corporations like Toyota and Sony—conglomerates that practically begged the Gojo clan to accept their shares in exchange for protection.
Even the Taira family had similar arrangements.
But the longer one spent immersed in the world of jujutsu, the harder it became to maintain an innocent smile.
The scenery outside the window flew by in a blur of light.
If you change your perspective and look at where you’re standing, he thought, the world becomes a little brighter.
It was a vast, colorful world.
Foul colors were inevitable, but there were beautiful ones, too.
Today was the day he truly stepped into the world of sorcery.
His thoughts were interrupted as they pulled up to the school gates.
The familiar graduation songs echoed across the campus.
As a well-known figure at the school, Minamoto found himself greeted by students left and right.
Walking through the halls, he saw the colorful chalkboard drawings and farewell messages left by the juniors.
He felt a pang of nostalgia knowing he was leaving this normalcy behind for the shadows of Jujutsu High.
At the Kyudo club, he finished one final round of practice with his teammates and took a group photo.
Youth and sentimentality intertwined in that moment; his ordinary middle school life was officially over.
The ceremony in the auditorium featured a grand chorus—cheerful voices underscored by muffled sobbing.
Finally, it was done.
After posing for countless photos with his juniors and “fans,” he made his way to the school gate.
There, he saw a group of three.
Beside his parents stood a tall man with a perfect, model-like build.
His shock of white hair was impossible to miss, even partially covered by his signature sunglasses.
Minamoto recognized him instantly: Gojo Satoru, the undisputed ceiling of the jujutsu world.
Even setting aside his memories from his previous life, he had met Gojo before at various clan gatherings.
This was the jujutsu world’s only true “Idol.” “Yo!
Long time no see, Minamoto-kun!
I happened to be in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d swing by and see you before you start school,” Gojo said, turning toward him.
“Gojo-sensei, you definitely just came here for the anime convention nearby,” Minamoto said, shaking his head.
“I actually wanted to check that out, too.” It was true—Gojo Satoru was a hardcore otaku.
He was an expert in anime, manga, and gaming, and he often brought Minamoto limited-edition merch from conventions.
Gojo’s legendary feat of pulling a hundred-hour gaming binge without sleep was a source of awe for any shut-in; he was a god among men who could pull all-nighters, look like a supermodel, and still be the strongest.
“Maa, maa, don’t worry about the details!
Here, I got you a souvenir,” Gojo replied flippantly.
“You’re enrolling in a couple of weeks, so there’s no harm in a little early orientation.
Now, come on!
Let me capture this graduation moment for you.” With Gojo Satoru as a witness, Minamoto’s daily life came to a close.
He was leaving the nest of his family to enter the turbulent tides of the jujutsu world.
His hand was already on the hilt of his blade; he was ready for the fight.
Gojo’s voice turned uncharacteristically steady and resonant.
“Taira no Minamoto-kun…
Welcome to Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College.” Elsewhere, in a dim, oppressive corridor, the sound of footsteps rang out like a sudden downpour.
A man dressed in an exquisite kimono led a group of subordinates forward.
His expression was cold and arrogant.
One by one, heavy doors slammed open before him.
With a sharp rasp of metal on stone, a final door opened into a dimly lit basement.
The young man stepped inside, his eyes indifferent to the dark.
The cramped room contained only a single table and two chairs.
An old man sat there, looking as though he had been waiting for an eternity.
The air was thick with the smell of moldy scrolls, causing the young man to knit his brows.
“Old man, was it really necessary to meet in a place like this?” “Naoya…
matters like these are best kept in the dark.
The annexation of another clan is not something we want outsiders knowing about.” “It seems we won’t be swallowing the Taira clan this generation,” Naoya sneered.
“The Taira brat just became Gojo Satoru’s student.” “No, no…
you are still too young,” the elder replied.
“Mediocre people only die faster when they stand next to Gojo Satoru.” If our clan doesn’t have a specific technique…
we’ll just have to take it from someone who does.